Belief
by karala13
Summary: "So you've been dreaming about me," Arthur says.  Eames/Arthur


"The sky," Eames says, "is _beautiful._" Arthur raises an eyebrow.

"It's, uh, very gray," he says, nodding. "So that's something." Eames grins.

"It's the same color as your shirt," he says, pointing towards Arthur with the spoon in his hand.

"That it is," Arthur says, looking down. Eames lets the conversation rest for a moment. Then he says the single most ridiculous thing that comes to his mind, because it's the _only_ thing that comes to his mind.

"The wind, Arthur," he starts, "doesn't ruffle your hair."

"Good observation," Arthur says. "And?"

"And…how's a man supposed to run his hands through that _helmet_ you wear if the bloody wind can't get through it? Is all that...all that…whatever the hell you put in it really necessary?"

"Eames," Arthur says, nearly looking serious "the day I let you run your hands through my hair will be the day that pigs fly." At that, Eames snorts loudly.

"_Pigs fly?_" he says. "And you wonder why I accuse you of having no imagination." Arthur responds with an eye roll. "And besides that," Eames goes on, "I've run my hands over every other inch of you. Why not your h-" Arthur clears his throat.

"Your soup's getting cold," he says. But Eames disregards this. His face turns serious.

"You know one day," he says, "I'll do it for real. I'll reach out my hands, and there you'll be. The real you. I'll run my hands down your back, between your fingers…" he smiles, "through your hair, if you'll let me." His smile turns sad. "But you won't let me." Arthur, across the table, sits in silence. This speech is routine. The silence is too. "I wish I could just open up my eyes. But that's when reality'd come flooding back. Then I'd lose you."

This statement is the most routine of all.

The ground shakes. This, though, is different

"What was that?" Eames questions, looking at Arthur. But Arthur is gone.

When the building collapses Eames eyes snap open. He is pulled back to reality and finds himself on the ground, a man standing over him.

"The hell was that, Cobb?" he says with less anger in his voice than is currently boiling through him.

"That, Eames, would be a kick," Cobb says, unsmiling. "I know what you're doing," he goes on, as Eames scrambles to his feet.

"Yeah? And what's that?" Eames challenges. Cobb glances over to the other side of the room where Arthur sits conversing with Ariadne. Cobb then looks back at Eames. His dark eyes can see right through him. Eames swears they can.

"I am all too familiar with the consequences of this routine you've gotten yourself into," he says, his voice harsh. "This guilty pleasure…it won't be long before this fantasy becomes your life. And trust me when I say-" again, he glances towards the other side of the room and back again. "-It will destroy you." Eames nearly rolls his eyes at the dramatic choice of words. But Cobb goes on. "Besides," he says, and Eames observes a certain warmth pass over his face, "The real, non-projection, man of your dreams…he's sitting right over there. I'd give anything to be in that position. If you want him, have him."

"Right, okay," Eames mutters, annoyed, as Cobb walks away. Cobb spots a poker chip, _his _poker chip on the ground, lodged halfway beneath his shoe. He picks it up. Chucks it at the wall in frustration. He storms out of the building.

* * *

The sky is that gray again. Always is. Eames taps his knife lightly on the edge of the table in absentminded impatience. And then. The sound of someone clearing their throat announces the arrival of Arthur, who slides into the chair across from Eames.

"You're late," Eames notes. How can he be late?

"No," Arthur says, with a twinkle in his eye that has never before been present. "I think I'm right on time." At that, Arthur stands up and wanders over to the edge of the rooftop restaurant, looking out at the city street below. He turns, gestures to Eames to join him. Eames gets up, confused. He hurries to Arthur's side.

"Close your eyes," Arthur whispers. Eames does so without a thought. He hears Arthur let out a long, peaceful sigh. Moments later he feels himself being gently pushed off the roof of the building. He falls fast and everything goes black as he hits the ground.

"You can open your eyes now." Eames looks around. Arthur is there, lounging in a chair beside him, grinning. Eames narrows his eyes and pulls the poker chip out of his pocket.

It isn't a dream.

He watches as Arthur gets up, only to sit himself down on the arm of Eames' chair.

"So you've been dreaming about me," Arthur says, his eyes locked on Eames'.

"You heard that, did you?" Eames says. He's never really experienced embarrassment, but now he does find himself wishing he could put a bullet in the head of the person he knows told Arthur about this. Maybe Arthur, too, for good measure, He, after all, was the one who would make sure Eames would never hear the end of it.

"Yeah but-" Arthur starts, "turns out I've been dreaming about you too."

On the outside, at least, Eames remains calm. "Ah," he says. "Well, what about me?"

"Well," says Arthur, "this, right now, this is nothing like the dreams I have. Too much talking. Not enough of this."

He presses his lips to Eames'. All soft, and moist, and real. Eames tightens his grip on the poker chip still in his hand, running his fingers over it again and again. Arthur breaks apart from the kiss, looking almost annoyed.

"What?" Eames questions. Arthur looks at the hand clenched around the totem. Eames raises his eyebrows and stuffs it into his pocket, as Arthur replaces it with his own hand. He leans in close, and whispers what the totem had tried to tell Eames. Only then does he believe.


End file.
